The city wants my nitrogen to hum, have fun in me,
so that the seeping mulch I am will make a lot of it.
Wonderful to feel and hear my guts so cunningly
produce the gas the city wants so it can plot with it
to fuss with – entertain itself. Not that what it does
with it is anything I know. It seems to like what
I am doing, though. I feel the city’s soothing buzz
inside: as if confiding, “You’re an And now, not a But.”
I’m a tiny essence in New York’s identity: it needs me
in however minuscule a way to keep some portion
of it in repair. Manhattan feeds and breeds me
so my hydrogen and methane can without distortion
help to gain, sustain the city’s equanimity. What better
destiny could I embrace? That any atom of me fits
in place in this great city’s plan! The spirit and the letter
of why I have any purpose here at all reside in its
decision to engage me as its slave, which honor gladly
I now savor. And if I leave this mortal coil in disgrace?
Won’t matter. I’ll do, though life go well or badly,
what I’m here to do: emit my CO2 in any, every case.